


And Here Is My Heart

by mydogwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John face the day of romance through the years, together and apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Here Is My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! There is no reason for this story, except I wanted to create a bit of fluff. Still having some season 3 angst. And also I didn't want you, my lovely readers, to think that I had forgotten you whilst I work away on my long AU, which is now at chapter 14 of 39!
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy and comments always welcome!

And here is my heart,  
which beats only for you.

-Paul Verlaine

 

1

“Today, children, you are each going to make a valentine to give to whomever you would like. Maybe your Mummy? I think she would like it very much.”

John Watson looked at the small pile of art supplies on the desk in front of him. Mum always said that the only present she ever wanted from him was a hug and for him to be good.

He wriggled with excitement. No, he would not give the card to Mum, because there was someone else he really, really liked.

When Miss Hazel said they could begin, John picked up the blunt-tipped scissors and began to cut a heart shape from the red paper. The tip of his tongue emerged as he concentrated on making it perfect.

After a few minutes, he set the scissors down and studied his work. What he saw made him frown just a little. Well, the heart certainly wasn’t perfect, but he was afraid that if he tried to even up the sides, it would only get worse. [He remembered all too well the birthday card he’d made for Harry not so long ago. His efforts to fix the flaws meant he ended up with a very tiny card indeed.] 

But John liked to solve problems, so he thought about it.

Finally, he applied several dollops of white glue and then added glitter. Lots of glitter. He thought it looked quite lovely, even if very little of the original red paper still showed through. There was enough empty space, however, for him to carefully copy out the message on the chalkboard: BE MY VALENTINE. He knew how to sign his name. JOHN H. WATSON.

Now he just had to wait until lunchtime, when he knew that Katy O’Doul would be outside with the rest of her class. He thought it was a bit unfair that just because her birthday was a few months before his, she was in with the seven-year-olds while he was here with the sixes.

 

While it usually seemed to take forever to arrive, today lunchtime came a little too quickly, before he really had time to prepare himself. He rushed through his pickle and cheese sandwich and crisps, then went outside.

Pausing, John licked his lips and took a deep breath. Katy was standing with two other girls, watching several older boys kick a football around. It was a shame that she was not by herself, but he was not going to let himself be put off by that. He couldn’t really wait much longer, or the bell would go and his chance would be gone.

John squared his shoulders inside the thick jumper and filled his lungs with air once more. Then, determined, he marched across the playground.

Katy didn’t seem aware of his approach until he was standing right in front of her. Startled, she blinked down at him. “Here,” he said, thrusting the card at her so quickly that glitter flew through the air. “This is for you,” he added gruffly.

She took the offering, looking surprised. “Thank you,” she said. “Ahh?”

“John Watson.” He gave his name briskly, then turned and, ignoring the giggles behind him, marched back to the doorway just as the bell sounded. 

 

After lessons were finished for the day, John hoisted his backpack and set off for home. As he passed the playing field, a flash of red on the ground caught his eye. He moved closer and saw his valentine abandoned in a puddle, looking trampled and torn.

He thought about picking it up and taking it home, although he didn’t think Mum would want it now, but instead he just kept walking.

*

Sherlock Holmes hated art class.

Drawing pictures or making silly useless objects from clay were boring things to do. He would rather have been in science class. [And he knew from painful experience that using the clay for experiments instead of making a pin dish was not encouraged.] After that disaster, he had even suggested to the teacher that his time would be better spent in the school lab [although it was a sad example of a lab. The one he had at home was better.] He had been very polite about the suggestion as well, as Mummy would have wanted.

But the teacher only smiled, telling him that science and art were both important.

It was ridiculous, really.

Sherlock had hoped that being advanced from the six-year-olds’ class into that of the seven-year-olds might make his life at least a little more interesting.

Sadly, that was not the case.

And this class was promising to be another gigantic waste of his time.

Even the art teacher was sounding bored as she told them that they were going to use the red paper, glue, and various shiny things to make hearts for Valentine’s Day. Sherlock loudly huffed his disapproval and opened his mouth to complain, mostly about the shiny things and glue, but the look Mrs. Hayes gave him was familiar. It was the kind of look that frequently lead to him visiting the headmaster’s office.

Mummy would not be pleased if they summoned her here again, especially so soon after the upset over the custard experiment. Which had not been his fault at all, really, but no one else seemed inclined to blame the lunch lady.

So, with a sigh, he merely reached for the scissors and began to cut the paper into the proper shape.

As the class was drawing to a close, Mrs. Hayes began to walk around the room, checking each student’s work. When she stopped next to Sherlock’s desk, she took a look and then took another look. “Sherlock, what is that?”

He tilted his head back to glare up at her. “Have you forgotten the assignment already? It’s a heart, of course. You told me to make a heart.”

She picked up the somewhat blobby piece of paper and began to read the tiny printed words in a soft voice. “Mitral valve, bundle branches, tricuspid valve.” She looked at him again. “Well, Sherlock, this is very good,” she said, sounding as if she wanted to laugh, although Sherlock had no idea why. It was an accurate depiction, he was sure of that, because Mycroft had tested him on this very subject only a month ago.

After a moment, she handed the heart back to him. “So who are you going to give it to?”

Now Sherlock scowled at her. “It’s my heart. Why would I give it away to anybody else?”

She just looked at him for a moment, before moving on to the next desk.

Sherlock decided that he was very pleased with his heart. He would take it home and put it safely into the drawer where he kept his best treasures.

 

***

 

2

It was a really crap job.

Three hours a day after school and eight hours every Saturday, he cleared tables and washed dishes in the diner next door to the police station. Cops and crooks made up most of the clientele. John wasn’t sure which group annoyed him more. He hated every minute he spent on the job [well, who wouldn’t?], but he needed the money if he wanted any kind of social life at all. Not to mention to have some money in his pocket when he went to uni in a couple of years.

Someday he’d be a rich doctor and never wash another dish in his life. He’d never voluntarily spend time with either the police or the criminal class either.

But for now he was here and being the sort of person he was, John always turned up promptly and worked steadily. Sometimes [knowing the sort of person he was] John worried that when it actually came down to it, he would not choose the career path that was going to make him rich.

The day before 14 February, John collected his paycheck. This week, his savings account was going to go unaugmented and his social life…well, hopefully that was going to make a great leap forward. He cashed his check and, notes in hand, headed for the High Street.

John realised very well that he was being rather premature. After all, he’d only had a few conversations with Millie Dowd and they’d never come close to having a date. Not yet anyway. But he had hopes.

The new and painfully chic little shop was crowded with other Valentine’s Day shoppers. The middle-aged woman clerk still managed to be very patient with John as he dithered. She finally suggested a gift box with twelve different flavors of chocolate truffles tucked into gold paper. He agreed with some relief and watched as she carefully set the chocolates into a shiny heart-shaped box.

When the box had been closed and finished off with a tidy bow, John carefully counted out the rather shocking amount from his hard-earned cash. Eyes on the prize, he told himself sternly.

Finally, lighter in pocket and also in spirit, he headed for home. Once there, he showered and [unnecessarily] shaved, splashing on the cologne Harry had given him for Xmas. The checkered green and white shirt looked nice under the oatmeal jumper and his jeans fit well.

He was ready.

He grabbed his helmet from its hook and headed for the back shed to get his bicycle for the ride to Millie’s house.

Just as he was reaching to push the door open, he heard the familiar sound of his sister giggling, followed by a different voice speaking quietly. Cautious of just barging in, John paused. He stood on tiptoe to look through the somewhat grimy little window.

Well, it was sort of an unspoken truth that no one really wanted to see his own sister making out. Really. The fact that Harry was kissing another girl was not a surprise; she had come out to her family at age twelve. But it had to be said that the fact that Harry was currently very busy snogging Millie Dowd was just a bit upsetting, even to John, who liked to think of himself as being an even-tempered sort of bloke.

It finally occurred to him that it would be really very embarrassing to get caught actually watching what was going on in the shed, so he lowered himself from his toes and walked back into the house, very carefully replacing the helmet on the correct hook, and then going to his room.

He switched on the radio. Wonderful. A special program of romantic music. Just the thing to set the mood. He should probably open his window and aim the radio towards the shed.

But he didn’t. Instead, he sat there listening and eating chocolates, one after the other.

When the entire box was empty, he finished listening to a Tom Jones song without really noticing the lyrics. Then he went to the loo and threw up, because a dozen chocolate truffles at once was really too many.

*

 

Mrs. Holmes had known for a very long time that there was little she could do to punish Sherlock if he refused to behave as she wanted him to. Which, of course, was what happened most of the time. It had been that way since he learned to walk and talk. Both of which happened even earlier than had been the case with Mycroft. The competition started early.

Confining him to his room [or, more accurately, rooms] with his computer, lab, and books was Sherlock’s idea of heaven and it was more common for her to try pulling him out to spend time with the family. Grounding him meant nothing because he never really went anywhere, excluding his nocturnal wanderings of London that he thought no one knew about. Locking him in seemed absurd and rather uncivilised. Hiring a bodyguard [Mycroft’s suggestion] would be ridiculous.

Even the notion of punishing him at all seemed increasingly unlikely when he stood in front of her, too tall, too gangly, and yet, in his dark trousers and jacket, looking quite grownup for sixteen.

In the end, it actually was Mycroft who proposed a solution that was undoubtedly questionable, ethically speaking, but which did seem workable. He suggested bribery. Mycroft, she thought idly, would go far in the civil service.

So Mummy offered up the absurdly expensive digital microscope Sherlock wanted. Desperate as she knew he was, her youngest son still pretended to think it over. Several hours at the annual Valentine charity banquet in exchange for the microscope. Finally, he nodded briskly. “I won’t wear a tie,” he said quickly.

Mummy opened her mouth to argue the point, then considering the battle still ahead, gave that up. “You will be polite,” she said.

“Huh.”

“Especially to Miss Deborah Kingman.”

Now he glared at her with his brows lowered. “Aha! I knew there was some reason that for the first time ever you are insisting I attend this farce. You know that I have no interest in---”

“Do you believe that I have an interest in everyone to whom I am polite?” Then Mummy frowned. “The banquet is not a farce, Sherlock. We raise a lot of money for young people who have not had your advantages. Sir Reginald Kingman is poised to make a million pound donation. He and his daughter will be at our table. She is your age and from all reports a charming young woman. You will make pleasant conversation. I know you can do that, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was obviously prepared to continue the discussion, but something in his mother’s face must have persuaded him otherwise, because he just made a sound of disgust and left the dining room.

Mummy just barely kept from high-fiving Mycroft, which would have surprised her older son no end.

 

Although he was attending the banquet under duress, Sherlock still took care with his appearance, just as he always did. He did not think of it as vanity, but instead as merely using every tool at his disposal. He knew [well, he had a mirror!] that his looks were worth exploiting when necessary. His new black suit was perfectly tailored to his slender body, as was the grey silk shirt. His shoes gleamed and he took extra care to tousle his hair just enough.

The success of his preparations was immediately apparent when he walked into the hotel dining room and took his seat next to Deborah Kingman, who beamed at him. He supposed that she was attractive by the usual sort of standard for such things: shoulder-length blonde hair, big blue eyes, and a rather more clever face than he had anticipated.

But, despite that, he was already bored.

As the first course was served, she turned to him with a smile. “So, Sherlock, tell me about yourself.”

“What about me?” he asked, toying with the soupspoon and eyeing the green concoction in the bowl with suspicion.

“The usual. Hobbies? Favorite school subjects? Plans for uni? You know, the kind of stuff people talk about.”

Sherlock gave up on the soup and picked up a bread roll, beginning to tear it into little pieces. “Is that what people talk about? How boring.”

She seemed amused. And interested. He knew the signs---widened eyes and moist lips. “Well, talk about whatever you like.”

So, as the second course was brought to the table, he began to tell her about an experiment he’d recently conducted, comparing the heart of a pig to the heart of a human.

She stopped the fork with a piece of prime rib halfway to her mouth. “You do mean like using a computer model, right?”

His glance at her was scornful. “Of course not. What would be the point of that?”

“You mean...?”

“Yes, yes, pay attention. I had a pig’s heart and a human heart. It was all quite interesting.”

She nodded just a little.

The meal passed as he continued to talk and she continued to listen; frequently, her eyes seemed to linger on his lips. He was enjoying the opportunity to show off, because both Mummy and Mycroft had long ago wearied of listening to him go into details on the pig vs. human heart study.

He chose to assume that when her hand touched his knee under the table that it was simply an accident. Nevertheless, he frowned so that she would be more careful in the future. 

“Sherlock,” she said finally, “it’s a little stuffy in here. Why don’t we go outside for some fresh air?”

He thought for a moment, staring at her. “Are you attempting to seduce me?”

Her face turned pink. “What?” Then she giggled. “I thought we could start with a kiss or two and see what happens.”

“I would rather not,” he said politely, hoping Mummy would be pleased.

She looked at him for a long moment, then smirked and excused herself to go to the ladies room.

Sherlock sat where he was, studying the people around him, perfecting his observational skills.

Finally, Mummy asked him to go fetch her coat from the cloakroom. He grumbled, but took the numbered receipt and left the table. After collecting the coat, he decided to wait in the lobby for her and Mycroft to emerge from the banquet room. Hotels were always interesting to him, because so many of the people seemed to have mixed motives for being there.

He was quite enjoying himself, watching two couples atempting to look calm, while obviously trying to work up the courage to switch partners for the night, when he heard Deborah’s voice coming from behind a bank of fake greenery. “Mygod,” she was saying. “What an absolute freak.”

“He didn’t really talk about that, did he?” another girl said.

“In excruciating detail.”

The second girl said, “My brother is at his school. He says everybody hates him, even the teachers.”

Several people laughed.

“I mean, he is rather stunning to look at, so I was still willing to give it a go. ‘I’d rather not’ he said.”

“A freak and a fag.”

Deborah sighed. “This will go down in history as the worst Valentine’s Day ever.”

Sherlock didn’t care what idiots like that thought about him. He really didn’t. But he had tried to be polite; he’d talked to her about very interesting things and she had seemed to listen. And then she had touched his knee and attempted to seduce him, but he still had not been rude. 

He saw Mummy and Mycroft approaching and moved quickly to meet them at the door. As they left, he glanced back and saw Deborah and the others staring at him, mocking smiles on their faces.

Idiots.

“When do I get my microscope?” he asked as the limo pulled up.

***

 

3

“Doctor Watson?”

John finished scrubbing his hands and turned to look at the nurse who’d spoken. He thought for a moment and decided that her name was…Mary. Mary Something. “Yes, Mary?” he said. “And you know by now that we’re not so formal here. Call me John.”

She smiled. “John, then.”

He waited patiently.

“Do you know what today is?”

“Hmm…Wednesday?”

She laughed softly. “Well, yes, it is. But I was referring to the date. It’s February 14th.”

“Is it?” John realised that it had been a long time since he’d given a thought to Valentine’s Day.

Mary nodded firmly. “I think we should have a romantic dinner,” she announced.

“What?” Genuinely startled, John stared at her. “We should have a what?”

“A meal. I like you. You have always been very nice to me. It’s Valentine’s Day and I am in the mood for a romantic dinner with a nice and very attractive man.”

He thought about telling her that he wasn’t even sure of her name, so maybe the whole romantic dinner thing was a very bad idea. 

But Mary seemed undeterred. “We’re stuck here in this rather horrid place, during a very horrid job. We see terrible things every day. I have no one waiting back home and it’s my understanding that you don’t either. So I just think it would be nice to have a quiet evening with some candlelight, wine, and soft music. The food will be from the mess kitchen, of course, but maybe the atmosphere and the company will make up for it.”

“Do you actually have candlelight, soft music, and wine?” he asked skeptically. This was his second tour in Afghanistan and he’d already signed up for a third, but this was the first suggestion of a romantic meal. There had been a few drinks, some quick gropes, a couple of hand jobs when things got desperate, but nothing like romance had ever been in the room. Or in the same country.

Frankly, it had been months since he’d even thought about it. When necessary, he took care of things himself. No romance needed and somehow it seemed less lonely than being in bed with a one-night stand.

She was right, of course, that there was no one waiting for him back home. Mary was cute. And it would be nice to spend the evening thinking about something other than the young man whose life he had failed to save hours earlier. 

“All right,” he said.

 

The food was, of course, mediocre. But the scented candle was pleasant. The soft music was restful. And the [probably inevitable] sex was fine. Fine. Mary fell asleep soon after, which thankfully curtailed the need for any post-coital conversation. A few minutes later, John slipped from the narrow bed and pulled his pants and trousers back on.

Luckily she had already told him that hers was a short posting and she therefore would be leaving in two days, so there would be no time for awkwardness. Or expectations.

John trudged back to his quarters, unable [or perhaps unwilling] to analyse the emotions he was having. Most of the time lately he felt really nothing at all, save weariness, so maybe it was good to be feeling something.

If forced to put a name to these unexpected feelings, John might have termed them a sort of heartsickness.

As he crawled into his own bed a few minutes later, John simply decided not to think about it anymore.

*

Although he might have looked like just another junkie huddled in a darkened doorway, a tattered and filthy blanket pulled around his shoulders, Sherlock knew the truth. He was not a junkie; at times, his brain just needed a little extra fuel, because it was always working so fast and was sometimes in danger of burning out. Like a car with its tires spinning on ice. Going and going and going, but not getting anywhere. The cocaine was just like giving the car a little push to get it moving forward.

He rather liked that analogy and decided to save it in the Mind Palace, in the room labeled Things To Tell Mycroft When He is Being a Pompous Prat. It was a crowded room.

Anyway, no matter how it looked, he wasn’t just huddled here. He was on a case.

Well, he was sort of on a case.

He was, at least, if one disregarded the fact that Lestrade had pulled him away from the actual crime scene and shoved him into an alley. “Jesus, Sherlock, you can’t turn up at these things high. Constable Donovan would love to throw you into the cells and she’s not the only one.”

Sherlock wanted to explain that he knew already just what had happened here and that if they would only listen they could probably stop the killer before he claimed a third victim.

But Lestrade would not listen. He just kept pushing Sherlock further down the alley, further from where the other officers were still working the scene. “This is it, Sherlock. If I catch you like this again, I’ll throw you in a cell myself and you’ll never be allowed on another crime scene. Now get the hell out of here.” He turned around and stalked off.

Sherlock just stood there for a moment, his shoulders hunched, both hands shoved into the pockets of his coat.

Well, fuck that. He didn’t need Lestrade or his even stupider minions. He would present the killer to them on a silver platter and see how they liked that.

So here he was.

Huddled in a doorway, watching the murderer wine and dine some stupid woman who didn’t know that her date was a serial killer of young street boys. The trendy café was crowded with couples dining under far too many red hearts and silly, mostly naked, babies wielding bows and arrows. Champagne corks kept popping and everybody seemed very jolly.

It all confused him for a while, but then he noticed the banner. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Oh.

Again? That holiday seemed to roll around all too frequently, in his opinion.

It was a chilly night and he pulled the orange blanket more tightly around his shoulders. For absolutely no reason that he could imagine, Sherlock found himself thinking of the paper heart he had made in primary school art class. His heart. He wondered where it was now. Probably still in the drawer at the Knightsbridge house. Mummy tended to just keep his things as he’d left them.

Next time he was there, Sherlock decided, he’d open that drawer and pull out the heart. It was his, after all. Although after all these years, it was probably starting to look a little tattered. Faded. Maybe bent or torn.

But it was still his and it might be nice to have it.

He rested his chin on his knees and watched the killer have another glass of champagne.

 

The next thing Sherlock knew, he was waking up in the grey dawn, feeling chilled and cramped. Across the road, the café was, of course, dark and empty.

“Damn,” he muttered, trying to straighten his legs. It took quite a while for him to actually stand, get his legs working properly again, and head for his horrid little flat. He couldn’t believe that he’d fallen asleep.

Later that day, when he found out that the killer had struck again, while Sherlock slept in a doorway like a common druggie, he felt sick inside and angrier with himself than he had ever been with anyone else.

Later still, he called Mycroft and told him that he wanted to go to back to the rehab facility. This time, he wanted to get clean. Needed to get clean.

He forgot all about his heart at the bottom of the drawer.

***

4

His life had become completely ridiculous and John knew it. Ridiculous and dangerous and absolutely more wonderful than he ever could have anticipated or even dreamt of. The fact that he was having all these thoughts as he chased a self-proclaimed sociopath through a dark alley, leaping rubbish bins and dodging oil slicks was just simply for the course. The kidnapper was just a little ahead of them.

It was all John could do not to laugh aloud.

As things did, at least in the life of John Watson, everything took a very wrong turn just at that moment, when he was his happiest. Jesus, he thought, does everybody in fucking London have a gun these days? That was his first thought when he heard the shot.

His second reaction was to the sight of Sherlock pausing mid-step, being very still just for a moment, and then toppling over without a sound. John lifted his gun and pulled the trigger without a thought. He fired twice into the darkness, not knowing or caring if he’d hit anything. [Sometime later, still not caring, he discovered that the kidnapper also had a gunshot wound to the head. Sadly, or not, that bullet went into the back of his skull and out the front.]

Even as the blast of the second shot was still echoing, John dropped to his knees beside Sherlock’s still form. “Sherlock,” he said in a hushed voice, although what he really wanted to do was shout.

There was only a little light penetrating the darkness of the alley, but it was enough for him to see the blood beginning to pool beneath Sherlock’s head.

John knew, he knew damnit, that head wounds, even minor ones, could bleed like a son of a bitch. He also knew that gunshot wounds to the head were rarely minor. More often fatal.

No, he wouldn’t think that. Could not think that.

With one hand, he was punching 999 into his phone, while with the other he was trying to stop the blood flow. From what he could see in the dim light, it looked as if the bullet had more or less skimmed the side of Sherlock’s head. His friend was probably not dying.

Well, he really couldn’t, could he? Not now. Not yet. 

There was blood all over John’s hand as he smooth the dark curls away from the wound. He leaned closer. “You’re not dying, Sherlock,” he whispered. “You are absolutely not dying.” John struggled to put his thoughts into words as he heard the first distant whine of the ambulance.

“You are not dying,” he said again, more firmly. “Our adventure is just beginning. There is so much more to come. So much more.” John knew it was true, although he didn’t really know what it meant.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open and he looked at John.

John patted his cheek, kept patting his cheek, muttering words that neither of them really listened to, as Sherlock just kept staring at him.

That was how the medical team from the ambulance found them.

 

John was too restless to just sit in the waiting room as Sherlock was being treated. He paced the corridor, getting in the way of passing nurses. Finally, he wandered down to the cafeteria where he pretended to eat a tuna mayo sandwich and actually did drink a cup of very strong tea. He had washed his hands, of course, but people took a second look when they saw the blood on his jacket.

Then he went into the gift shop, which was full of pink balloons and red hearts. He’d forgotten the date.

For some reason, he decided to buy Sherlock a get-well card. It was a ridiculous thing to do, of course. But, as already noted, his entire life was ridiculous, and he could not shake the feeling of absolute terror he’d felt watching Sherlock topple over in that alley, watching him fall to the ground, watching the blood pool onto the pavement. Somehow John knew that the image would haunt his nightmares.

The tiny shop was beginning to close in on him and so he snatched up an enormous red heart with sentiments that he didn’t even bother to read. Suddenly, he just had to get back. He had a moment of panic, envisioning a nurse waiting to tell him that Sherlock hadn’t made it. Had died while John was not with him, while John pretended to eat a sandwich. He threw money at the clerk and practically ran back to the waiting room.

The nurse who was waiting there told him that Sherlock was in his room now and that John could go in.

Sherlock was still asleep, of course. John lightly touched the bandage on the side of his head and then let his fingers slid over to his cheeks. The skin was warm. John set the card on the bedside table and then sat in the chair.

Without meaning to, he fell asleep.

*

Sherlock managed to open his eyes, although it was far from certain if that was a very good idea. The light hit him like a blow. It took several moments before he was fully aware of the circumstances.

Hospital. Alley. Gun. Pain. Blood. John.

John.

He slowly moved his head just a little and saw John, slumped in the plastic chair, his neck bent at an awkward angle. He was snoring softly.

Then Sherlock saw the huge and shockingly hideous card standing on the bedside table. A big red heart.

From the hazy memory of what had happened in that alleyway, he dredged up some words.

Our adventure is just beginning. There is so much more to come.

He looked from the card back to John sleeping in the chair. His friend.

Sherlock realised that he was looking forward to the adventure John had promised. The adventure that was John himself.

Then he fell asleep again.

***

 

5

The card was not shiny or glittery or in the shape of a heart.

He had spent really far too much time in the W.H. Smith looking through the vast collection on offer. This was important and John was determined to do it right.

The one he finally selected was not even a Valentine card at all. The inside was blank and on the front was a reproduction of VanGogh’s Starry Night. John thought it was perfect, although he couldn’t have really explained why.

John paid for the card and left the shop, but instead of going home, he found a non-chain coffee shop and settled at a little table in the back. After a few careful sips of his latte, he opened the card and picked up his pen. He had been thinking about the words for a long time, so they flowed easily.

 

Dear Sherlock,

Although this is not the first Valentine I have given you [who could ever forget that ridiculous red heart from the hospital?] this is the one that matters. It matters because I want to say all the things I have never said before.

Not before time, I expect.

It has taken me much too long to understand myself or, rather, to understand myself in relationship to you. In relationship to you. That says it all, right?

It was always there, wasn’t it? From that very first night. One of the things I wonder about [there are so many things, even in my tiny little mind] is what might have happened on that night if things had gone differently. What would have happened if, as we leant against the wall in the foyer, I had just reached over and kissed you? Or taken your hand? Would you have put me off, as you did at Angelo’s?

I like to think not. But, as we know, I’m an idiot.

But that doesn’t really matter now, does it? We changed over time, both of us, coming to understand the relationship, even if it remained unacknowledged between us. These words were always going to be said sooner or later, weren’t they? I’m only sorry it wasn’t sooner.

Oh, I am just rambling now. I know how that annoys you, so I will get to the point.

You mean so much to me. Everything, really.

Now I am even annoying myself. I swore that I would not resort to euphemisms. Long past the time for that kind of thing.

I love you. Always have. Always will. Just wanted you to know. Why wouldn’t I love you? Partly because of your brilliant mind, of course. And who would not love those eyes? Your face. All the coat swooping. Sorry, I can imagine the expression of your face at these words. But the simple truth is, I love everything about Sherlock Holmes.

Except that, of course, there is nothing simple about those words. Not for us.

Better stop before I completely humiliate myself. Although it wouldn’t matter, if it meant you know that I love you.

It’s Valentine’s Day, so I guess we could say I’m giving you my heart. Belatedly, because it has actually been yours for a very long time.

Yours, always,  
John

 

He closed the card and put it into the envelope. The latte was cold now, but he swallowed it down anyway, before carefully writing SHERLOCK on the envelope.

Time to deliver the card.

John almost smiled. Almost.

 

It was chilly and dark, but John didn’t really notice. He preferred the cemetery when it was like this and he could be alone. For a long time, he just stood there, one hand resting on the top of the shiny black headstone. There were no stars to be seen overhead, so he was glad for the ones on the card. Sherlock, he thought, deserved stars.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Sherlock,” he whispered. Finally, he bent to rest the card at the base of the headstone, fixing it into place with two small pebbles he’d picked up from the roadway.

John straightened, gave the black stone one more pat, and then walked away.

 

*

Mummy was in the south of France and so the house was empty. He was only in London for a couple of days to collect the bits of data he needed before heading for Tibet, where he expected---hoped---to finish this whole endeavor and survive doing so.

Mycroft suggested he just stay at the house.

At the very least, it was a pleasant change from the kind of places he’d been forced into over the past months. But as much as he was appreciating hot showers and clean bed linens, as far as Sherlock was concerned the biggest advantage was easy access to Mycroft’s CCTV footage. He had spent far too much time watching John Watson move around London.

It caused actual physical pain to see the other man, to know that he was so close, and yet not be able to talk to him. To inhale the mingled scent of tea, cheap soap, and John that had come to mean Home. To touch him even if Sherlock was not absolutely clear what that meant. All he knew for sure was that they had been heading towards something before the world shifted and everything changed. It was an adventure, as John had said. One that they thought there was time for, would always be time for, until time ran out for them.

Sherlock had broached the idea of telling John, of having him come along on the last part of the mission. But his brother rejected the suggestion out of hand. “Sebastian Moran is the most dangerous of all the adversaries you have faced. One hint that you’re alive and John Watson becomes a target.”  
Mycroft paused.

“What else?” Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft sighed. “You needed to be completely focused. What if, and I am not saying this would happen, but suppose you asked John and he refused? He has been badly hurt by your actions and it is possible that he would rather move on with his life. I don’t know how you would cope.”

Sherlock just stared at him for a moment. Then, viciously, he turned around and pointed at the computer screen, where he had a still of John from the CCTV video. “Look at him, Mycroft. Is that the face of a man who is moving on?”

Mycroft conceded the point with a nod. “Nevertheless,” he murmured.

Sherlock knew Mycroft was right, but that didn’t make him like it any better.

 

Later that night, Sherlock was dressed in his homeless attire, ready to go out for the scheduled meet with a contact, a man who could provide a recent picture and vital information on Sebastian Moran.

He had not yet left the house, however, because he was watching John at the gravesite. John was talking, but his head was turned so that Sherlock could not read his lips. Finally, he bent and set an envelope carefully against the headstone.

Then, yet again, he had to watch John turn and walk away.

Sherlock didn’t much care for the ache deep inside his chest as John vanished.

 

Two hours later, Sherlock had the information he needed and there hadn’t been the need for much violence at all. But he did not go back to the house immediately. Instead, he stood on Baker Street and watched a shadow move about behind the window shades.

Then he went to the cemetery and picked up the envelope. It did have his name written on it, after all.

He waited until he was at the house to open the envelope and take out the card inside. Reading the words made him feel sort of happy. But at the same time it made want to smash something. Or give a primal scream. Or maybe just let loose the tears prickling behind his eyelids.

But he did none of those things. Instead, he just tore off the filthy clothes and fell into bed.

 

The next day Sherlock left London again. Added to the few things in his knapsack were two extra items. One was a card with a reproduction of Starry Night on the front and a handwritten message inside. The second was a tattered drawing of a human heart.

***

 

6

The muted sounds of early morning London leaked into the bedroom, along with a murky grey dawn light. John woke slowly, reluctantly, because it had been a late night, much of it spent chasing two bank robbers through the Docklands.

Despite his grogginess, he couldn’t help smiling at that.

Even after nearly six months of running after Sherlock again, of living again, John was still rather amazed when he thought about it all.

And when it came to amazing…

He rolled over and immediately collided with a warm, immovable wall of consulting detective. Sherlock’s disregard of personal space extended to the bed. Not that John was inclined to complain much. Or at all, really.

It was not a surprise to see that Sherlock was not sleeping either, but was wide awake and watching him.

“Good morning,” John said.

Sherlock just nodded. It seemed that either he was firing words out of his mouth as if there were just too many to hold inside or he was acting as if there were some rationing program in place for the words he could utter each day. John wasn’t bothered either way.

“Did you sleep?”

“A little. Enough.”

“Good.” John leaned in and gave his temple a soft kiss. “I have to go to the clinic today.”

That announcement drew the usual sigh of dissatisfaction.

John only smiled. “But we’re having dinner tonight, right?”

“We usually have dinner, John.”

“Tonight is special.”

Scornful as he was of overly-commercialised holidays, even Sherlock could not seem to bring himself to argue with that. Still, his brows lowered. “No hearts. No flowers. No chocolates.”

John laughed softly and tried to scoot even closer, although that was really not possible. “Yes, I know how you feel about those things. The real question is, where do you stand on the subject of Valentine’s Day sex?”

Sherlock pretended to think about it. “Well,” he drawled finally, “in general I have no opinion on it. Other than a certain disdain. But, in the specific, Valentine’s Day sex with John Watson is something I would be very much in favor of.”

“Excellent.”

They were both quiet for a time, as John began stroking [or, really, petting] Sherlock’s hair. “You know,” he said then. “It almost feels like a cheat to celebrate today. I mean, yes, the fourteenth of February is the official holiday. But it’s not my personal Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh?” was all Sherlock said, his voice dropping into an even deeper register; he did love being petted.

“That would be the day I received your poor tattered heart in the mail. When I knew you were alive and coming home.”

“Not tattered anymore,” Sherlock pointed out. “My doctor mended it.”

At least Sherlock had stopped apologising every time the subject of his hiatus [as Mycroft termed it] was mentioned. Instead, he just tightened his hold on John. “Mycroft said you might not forgive me,” he whispered.

John snorted. “Which is why we never have him round for Sunday lunch.” He tangled his fingers in unruly curls. “So. Dinner at Angelo’s and then sex. Sounds like a plan to me.”

Sherlock made a sound that was almost a giggle, although he would have strenuously denied any such thing.

Then they both fell silent, content to be tangled together in their bed, breathing in unison. John rested his head on Sherlock’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his lover’s heart, as Valentine’s Day crept slowly into 221B and was welcomed by the two men who had each waited so very long for it to arrive.

fini


End file.
